


walls could talk

by Sierra



Category: Free!
Genre: Celebrity AU, Established Relationship, Frottage, Lapdances, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, actor!Sousuke, handjobs, idol!Makoto, manager!Rin, referenced RinHaru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra/pseuds/Sierra
Summary: “Take your jeans off.”Makoto raises his eyebrows. “Why?”“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”Makoto’s eyebrows inch ever closer to his hairline. “Sousuke, what…”Sousuke stands abruptly, unzips his own jeans, and pushes them down past the jut of his hips in one decisive movement. “I’m running out of lines here, Makoto.”“Oh my god,” Makoto blurts out, eyes drawn downwards like a magnet. “Watching that made you hard?”“No Spanish inquisition today,” Sousuke says, reaching for Makoto’s jeans next with a predatory grin.





	walls could talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishka/gifts).



> a second v belated birthday present doubled as an 8 month anniversary present. how gay. 
> 
> sorry, bb, but once you told me about this scenario, i had a hard time getting it out of my head ... /sweats
> 
> companion piece to [artwork done by Karo/agaricals](http://agaricals.tumblr.com/post/163593359757/part-of-the-soumako-conspiracy-with-sierrasuke) feat the same scenario. ;> for once i wasn't alone in my scheming...
> 
> title song: [walls could talk by halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjkrV9O_C2w)

 

 

“No, no, no, _no_!”

The music cuts to silence.

“Makoto, what in the fresh hell was that?” Rin demands with a vexed arch of an eyebrow, hands planted on his waist. “Can we have less gyrating and more sauntering, please? You’re trying to be enticing in a PG-13, teenage-friendly manner, not dancing like you turn tricks on the side. Parents will be watching. Parents have clout with the ratings watchdog, and in case you didn't notice we’re trying to stay in _business_.”

Makoto’s facing the other direction but the clench of his jaw is almost audible. His shoulders square as Rin claps his hands in an out-of-sync imitation of a beat.

“You’re walking a fine line between prostitution and squeaky-clean pop idol here, Tachibana,” he says briskly. “Now start paying attention to _where_ you’re sashaying.”

“Fine,” Makoto grumbles into the mic. It carries into the loudspeakers, could easily flush out any teenage girls hiding in the back rows for a sneak preview of the show to come. His grip is tight, knuckles bone-white. “Play the music.”

“That’s the winning attitude,” Rin praises, and the song floods the arena again.

After the fifth time, it’s all starting to sound the same to Sousuke.

“Since when does Rin care about what parents think?” Sousuke mumbles to Haru, who shrugs and tosses back a mouthful of bottled water. “I thought he only gave a shit about sales and getting Makoto dressed in luxury brands.”

“And his hair gel,” Haru adds. “I don’t question his methods. He makes no sense.”

Sousuke stifles a groan. “Neither of you do. Perfect fuckin’ match.”

It’s hot under the stage lights even from the front row where he and Haru are sprawled in their seats. He can’t imagine how Makoto is feeling up on the stage under Rin’s scrutiny and the heat. Then Sousuke decides he's better off not knowing what’s going through Makoto’s head when he shoots a quietly venomous stare over his shoulder at Rin, a hand raking through his sweaty, slicked-back hair. The mic will end up crushed between Rin’s teeth at this rate, and Sousuke is firmly of the belief that he deserves it after this particularly brutal rehearsal.

“Probably just trying to get the most out of Makoto,” Haru says, closing an eye when Rin hits the switch for the rotating overhead disco ball again. “He does the same to you.”

“The difference is I don’t listen when he talks. I don’t need a manager; Rin just imposed himself on me for a cut of my financial success. He’s a smart businessman but not much of a coach.” Sousuke chuckles under his breath. “And he’s heading for certain death, not chart success. Someone should tell him. Any more pre-show pressure and Makoto might do something he regrets.”

Haru nods along in agreement. “Well, Rin seems to have enjoyed two-timing you both. Had a good run, but he’s hit the end of the line.”

Sousuke should record this impromptu eulogy on his phone in the likely event that Rin doesn’t make it through the last five minutes of Makoto’s rehearsal. He slides a hand into a pocket for his phone and opens the voice memo app, just in case.

“You know I hate to agree with you,” he concedes, “but yep.”

“Guess I’m your manager now,” Haru muses with an amused sidelong look.

That only sounds like half a nightmare.

Sousuke shuts it down before that thought can take root. “Like hell. Kisumi already asked months ago in case Rin ever quit. Or died.”

“Dying and quitting aren’t the same.”

“They are to Rin.”

Haru hums. “True. A plastic bag would be faster than Makoto’s bare hands...”

Sousuke props his chin on a palm. “You think?”

Finally, Makoto loses the last of his composure and wheels back around to face Rin. The provocative hip swaying of a moment ago has morphed into a ramrod-straight spine as he twirls the mic agitatedly.

“Enough,” he shouts over the music. Rin has the good sense to tap the pause button, glowering. “God, _enough_. I need some time to myself before tonight. Get my head straight.”

* * *

Makoto’s room backstage is more disorganised than Sousuke’s dorm ever was.

There’s a disparity between the Makoto he knows personally and the Makoto he knows professionally, and it’s never been more apparent than in this room. He thinks of Makoto’s office at home, the neat and orderly fashion of his wardrobe, the fact everything in Makoto’s personal life has a place and a purpose and _this_ …

This makes Sousuke—the world’s least organised person—look like a professional declutterer by comparison. He doesn’t make his bed in the morning considering that’s where he goes the second he gets home at night, and he stopped using plates years ago when the effort of washing them proved to be too much and time better spent watching television. Makoto has a silent loathing for eating off paper plates, but Sousuke’s convinced that the water conserved from their unused dishwasher is helping someone, somewhere.

He forces himself into the nearest chair, making a concerted effort not to glance around. The room is littered with costumes, every surface covered with hair spray, glitter aerosol cans, and a variety of other things Sousuke can’t identify.

Makoto unhooks his belt, reefs it out of his jeans, and tosses it across the vanity. Despite the tense set of his shoulders, he seems fractionally more relaxed in the absence of Rin—or as close as he gets to relaxed so close to a sold-out show.

Sousuke can’t help but stare at him a bit reverently. If he had half of Makoto’s patience, he and Rin would have half as many fist-fights over inconsequential things like how to spend hypothetical lottery winnings.

And if Sousuke had half of Makoto’s grace, he wouldn’t give a shit about the state of a dressing room.

“You’re pissed,” he says at length. “I get it. Rin’s busting your balls. Does it to me too.”

“Does it show?” Makoto asks wryly, pushing a hand through his fringe to detangle it. “It’s been three weeks since I had time off.”

“You signed up for a tour,” Sousuke counters before his mind catches up to his mouth. “And it’s not like you aren’t getting paid.”

Makoto kicks off a shoe, and it sails precariously close to Sousuke’s head before knocking over an empty water bottle.

“Thanks for the sympathy,” he mutters.

“No sympathy,” Sousuke says. “You knew what you were getting into. You also know you can fire Rin whenever you want.”

Makoto huffs out a laugh at that, the crease of his smile a welcome sight. “He’s good at what he does, though.”

Sousuke smirks. “See? Worth keeping him around.”

He catches Makoto’s wrist when he walks past in search of a brush for his unkempt hair. Makoto only resists for a moment, then surrenders to the iron grip of Sousuke’s weight in the chair. Sousuke loosens his hold and slides his fingers up the inside of Makoto’s arm, taking note of the pulse fluttering away under Makoto’s skin, a staccato beat that still seems to be attuned to the music.

“Rin was right,” he says. “You should practice.”

The withering stare could make a lesser man run with his tail between his legs but it’s ineffective on Sousuke. “Not you too.”

“Could be fun.” The smirk tugs a bit wider at one side of Sousuke’s mouth. “Take your jeans off.”

Makoto raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Makoto’s eyebrows inch ever closer to his hairline. “Sousuke, what…”

Sousuke stands abruptly, unzips his own jeans, and pushes them down past the jut of his hips in one decisive movement. “I’m running out of lines here, Makoto.”

“Oh my god,” Makoto blurts out, eyes drawn downwards like a magnet. “Watching that made you hard?”

“No Spanish inquisition today,” Sousuke says, reaching for Makoto’s jeans next with a predatory grin. He pops the button open and drags them down far enough for Makoto to step out the rest of the way. Predictably, he finds Makoto wearing a pair of Sousuke’s steel grey athletic shorts underneath. That he’s made a habit of ransacking Sousuke’s underwear drawer should be more troubling considering how Makoto complains about anything that isn’t a tight fit. Sousuke doesn’t have time for those thoughts right now, especially not when he’s got the same type of shorts in a jet-black under his own clothes.

“Watching you,” he murmurs, twining his fingers with Makoto’s and taking a step back toward the chair. “That’s what got my cock hard.”

Makoto swallows visibly. Sousuke’s grin broadens.

He sinks into the chair and places his hands on Makoto’s hips, face to face with the proof that he isn’t the only one who finds this agreeable. He could have Makoto from this angle if he wanted, but there’s more of a mutual benefit in what he has planned.

“Turn around,” he says, voice soft but full of intent. Makoto shifts, facing the other way without protest. Sousuke smooths his hands up Makoto’s sides under his shirt, feeling along his obliques with an almost worshipful touch before applying gentle pressure to encourage him. “Sit.”

Makoto glances back at him questioningly. Sousuke just pinches a nipple lightly in admonishment.

Makoto bites down a laugh but obeys, carefully lowering himself over Sousuke’s lap.

“This is the practice you had in mind, Sousuke?” he asks, shivering faintly as Sousuke rucks his shirt up, bunching it around his upper chest and exposing the length of his back. “You couldn’t wait until we got home?”

“Nope,” Sousuke mutters, tone roughened. He tugs at Makoto’s shirt, breath hot against his skin. ”Hold this up.”

Makoto eases a hand under his shirt, holding it firm around his pectorals. A whimper escapes him as Sousuke skims his teeth along the side of Makoto’s neck before biting down hard.

The weight on Sousuke’s thighs is enough to send his head reeling. He wastes no time, a hand sliding around to Makoto’s front; his fingers delve into Makoto’s shorts, finding the point of his interest in a matter of seconds, hot and heavy in his palm. Exhaling slowly, he tilts his own hips up. “Now move, Makoto.”

He nearly expects a taunting smile, maybe further questioning of his motives. But all Makoto does lean back into him, shoulders flush against Sousuke’s chest. He sets his hips to a slow grind without warning, choking a groan out of Sousuke’s throat. His own cock is hard to the point of aching but he has more restraint than Makoto, more interest in seeing Makoto satisfied. He can wait.

“Good boy,” Sousuke breathes against Makoto’s ear. “Just like that.”

He dips a thumb into the slit of Makoto’s cock and uses the wet of precome to stroke along the length of him. Makoto’s pace staggers for a moment, caught between one sensation and the next. Then he finds his rhythm again, and each measured, excruciatingly slow twist of his hips is like a bolt of heat to the base of Sousuke’s spine.

His breathing is laboured now. “Makoto…”

Makoto’s body responds to his voice, back arching and changing the angle of pressure on Sousuke’s cock. The friction is unbearable through his clothes. To distract himself, he redoubles his efforts to bring Makoto to his peak, reaching into Makoto’s shorts with his other hand and caressing his balls with a heady groan.

“Just fuck me,” Makoto whispers, strained. An arm lashes back to wrap around Sousuke’s neck, holding him close. Makoto’s urgency is building with every gyration, and it’s almost palpable. “There’s lube on the table. Please, Sousuke—“

“No,” Sousuke murmurs, grinning despite himself. He buries his teeth into the back of Makoto’s neck to stave off his own finish. “You’re gonna come for me like this, Makoto.”

Makoto seizes up and cries out a moment later, the motion of his hips becoming erratic. His body tremors in Sousuke’s hold, every muscle drawn taut. Makoto wrenches around suddenly to claim Sousuke’s lips in a forceful, heated kiss, still holding down half-sobs of pleasure as Sousuke strokes him through his release with a shiver of his own. Makoto doesn’t stop kissing him until the quivering subsides; when he pulls away it’s with a gentle bite to Sousuke’s bottom lip, which he teases with his tongue briefly.

His face is flushed but content. He slides around, straddling Sousuke’s lap facing forward, and a hand creeps past the waistband of Sousuke’s shorts. He finds his prize and smiles indolently when Sousuke’s breath hitches. “You’re bad.”

Sousuke chuckles faintly. “Wait for my worst.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://sierrasuke.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/sierrasuke)
> 
> thanks for reading!


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